


Jeans

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: looks to die for [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Teasing, assassin reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Sometimes, things align just right; or, Bucky meets up with you after you both finish work.





	Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> Written from a prompt on Tumblr.

Bucky: done with work

Bucky: when do you finish

You: zzzzz

You: like I haven’t been done for an hour already

You: come buy me a drink, handsome

* * *

Bucky grins. Sam quirks a brow as he tugs his jacket’s zipper up.

“Your girl in town?” Sam asks drily.

“No,” Bucky says. He sticks his phone in his back pocket. Jeans aren’t ideal, but at least this pair has a quote-unquote _ good fit_. Your words, not his, but that’s good enough for him. “See ya.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” Sam calls after him.

Bucky revs his bike. “Whatever, Wilson.”

* * *

Everyone has their own post-job routine.

Kasie likes to get a massage. She’s got the best masseuse in every major city on speed dial. You’ve joined her a few times, on those occasions where you actually are in the same place when a job’s complete. Happens less and less, lately, but there’s something wonderfully relaxing about those warm towels, firm hands, every kink in your muscles being turned to jelly.

Luka prefers adrenaline. He’s a brilliant fighter, but more often than not, his role is so under the radar that he barely gets to use any weapons at all. So after a job is done, off he goes to the woods, or a shooting range, or laser tag.

Of those three, you like laser tag best. Fancy dress, ridiculous flashing vest, teenagers screaming at your raw fury as you charge through the maze…

It’s fun.

But not your favorite.

Your favorite post-job haunts are cocktail bars, at least when a tropical island isn’t the cards. And right now, you’ve got no island plans. Only two days before your next gig, and in the meantime...

A smile curves your lips at the ping from your phone. Bucky’s on his way. Seven minutes out, plenty of time to check that everything’s where it ought to be.

Mascara, lipstick, bloodstain on your shoulderblade cleverly hidden under your silk scarf...

Well, ideally there’d be no bloodstains, but sometimes you just have to make do. Besides, your dress is dark. In the dim lighting of an upscale cocktail bar, there’s no spotting it.

A finger taps on your back. You start, champagne sloshing over your manicured fingers.

“What happened?”

You can’t help smiling as you suck the bubbles from your fingers. _ Normal _ eyes wouldn’t be able to see a bloodstain on a dark dress under a silk scarf.

Bucky Barnes is anything but normal.

“_I _ happened,” you tell him.

Bucky snorts. He slides onto the bar stool beside you, and you blink.

“Jeans? Really, Bucky?”

“What, like I was gonna go change before meeting ya?” He squeezes your thigh, your dress pulling up over your knees as his hand sneaks higher. His eyes sparkle as he tilts his chin. “That woulda been a waste of time.” He flags down the bartender with his left hand, orders a beer.

You prop your chin on your hand and watch him flick his metal thumb impatiently as the bartender pops the cap. A little smile plays on your lips as he takes a hearty gulp, as his Adam’s apple bobs on his pale throat. Your eyes trace the lines of his neck, his shoulders, down, down…

Changing _ would _ have been a waste of time. They’re jeans, just jeans, but even as out of place as they are in this upscale bar, you can’t help but shift in your seat at how they strain against his thighs, his hips.

Bucky’s right hand is still on your leg, his fingers gently massaging your thigh. You weren’t planning on a massage tonight, not without Kasie and her best-in-the-city speed dial, but—this will do.

You finish your champagne a little too fast, and Bucky laughs at your hiccoughs as he steadies you from the door to his bike, settling you in behind him and winding your arms around him. You squeeze his chest, humming happily as you bop your helmeted face against his shoulderblade. The wind catches at your scarf, tickles your skin. Your dress is thin, thin enough so you can press closer against his back, feel his chuckle as he draws one of your roaming hands up to his mouth to drop a kiss on your knuckles.

“Hold on tight, angel,” he murmurs.

You squeeze his waist as you grip your wrists.

“You won’t escape me that easy,” you say, and Bucky just laughs.

* * *

Later, after a massage that has a positively _ heavenly _ ending, you card your fingers through Bucky’s hair. He nuzzles his nose against the crook of your neck, his bare leg splayed over yours.

“You know,” you muse, “I don’t think you’ve ever even seen me in jeans.”

Bucky snorts. “Don’t think so.”

“Could always try on yours,” you say.

Bucky tightens his arms around you. “No,” he mumbles. He kisses the mark blooming on your collarbone. “Stay with me.”

You hook your foot in the sheets tangled at the end of the bed and pull it up over your tangled legs.

“It’d take a miracle to keep me away.”

“Good.”

Bucky reaches out blindly past you and clicks off the light. He props himself up just enough to cradle your face in his hand. His eyes are all soft, all sweet, all yours.

“Sweet dreams, angel.”

“I’m planning on dreaming of you.” You bump your nose against his, smile sleepily. “So they will be.”


End file.
